the ballsbridgean lady
Uno degli esercizi del mio corso.
Una storiella «irlandese» in dieci minuti.
Io mi sono divertita.
Se c’è qualcuno che mi dice «scrivi», ubbidisco.
(Il problema è darsi il diritto da soli…).
«Please, make your effin’ choice», he said touching his apples and celery and aubergines. «We are closing at foif».
«Oh, are you?», the Ballsbridge woman, Dublin 4, replied in her nice Burberry raincoat looking down her nose at the greengrocer’s red face.
«Yeah, we are indeed», he smiled.
«And… erm… would you mind telling me what does exactly mean that nice word, Sir?».
«’Course. Which oon?».
«Oh, I mean the foif word».
«Ah, yeah. Jaysus, I was meaning the hoir».
«I beg your pardon?».
«Oh, the toim».
«Yes. But, again, Sir. I am so sorry. What is the toim?».
«I’ll tell ya, shawr…».
«Shawr? Please, Sir. Does it perhaps mean sure?».
«’Course Shawr does mean shawr. What else?».
«Glad to hear it, Sir. Thanks».
«And toim is toim; just like peeage is peeage, ya know, that thing you foin in books. Ya know…».
«No, I don’t, actually. I’m so sorry, Sir. Maybe you have been studying abroad for a long time?».
«Oh», he said. «Not really. I am from Moore Street, ya know. I am Mrs. Brown eldest son, ya know…».